Love Among the Ashes

“If you are captured, use this to kill yourself with.” Hiro’s wife handed him the dagger. She loved him unconditionally, but she was a loyal citizen, a woman warrior of Japan and her ultimate allegiance belonged to the Emperor, for it was He, the divine instrument, that had brought Hiro and her together. With a poisonous hiss, the blade slipped from its sheath. She positioned the tip of the curved steel to her stomach, intending to demonstrate where to place the blade before falling onto it, but Hiro knew the custom well; he had witnessed it firsthand during the first world war. With soft, compassionate, embrace of hands he slid the weapon back into its cover and took it from her, placing it into the military issue bag at his feet.

“Thank you,” he said to his wife, who with a curt, customary bow left him to board the naval vessel waiting for him on the quay of a calm and patient sea. His orders were simple enough: He and two other soldiers were to occupy one of the boundless Philippine islands, disrupt all supply chains to French Indo-China, ensuring the preservation of Japanese values and rid the east of the European vulgarity.

Hiro and his two comrades, being descendants of feudalistic parents, knew how to sustain themselves from the land. Within a day they had built a secluded shelter, cast woven baskets in a nearby river for catching fish and set wire snares for trapping wild pig.

News of Japan’s military dominance over China’s communistic corruption reached them by way of a wireless broadcasting contraption and they rejoiced but news of America’s attempts to strangle Japan by ceasing all trade and impeding her oil supplies infuriated the Japanese government. “This amounts to a declaration of war!” A statesman through the static warned, “retribution will be swift, and deadly!” And they rejoiced.

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In the distance, slowly, there emerged a marching of turbulent white feet upon the calm ocean. Imminently, the might of the Japanese navy appeared, ships, shining silver, the bold red rising sun hoisted at each bow, radiant against the golden orb surfacing on the horizon. Being careful to stay hidden within the periphery of the jungles’ edge, Hiro and his two comrades, by way of salute placed their hands on the handles of the samurai swords that adorned each of their uniforms. Slowly the ships disappeared; the only evidence that they had been there, a white road dissolving imperceptibly into the west.

Unpredictably violent Monsoon storms assaulted the island and one evening the roof of their shelter collapsed under the increasing weight of relentless rain. Their communications radio malfunctioned after being soaked with water. None of the men were engineers and it took two weeks dedicated to the resurrection of the radio to establish communications again. The three soldiers learned that allies’ arrogant leaders had declared war on their homeland. This ignorance and presumption furthered their resolve against these materialistic heathens.

Vicious Monsoon storms punctuated the maddening passage of jungle time. Seasons past. One of the soldiers grew gravely ill; a high fever tortured his sleep until a week later he died a convulsive and humiliating, diuretic death.

The next day a boat appeared on the horizon, too distant to discern it was a civilian, recreational fishing watercraft. Haunted by the horrific death of his comrade, the remaining soldier ran from their observation point, waving and shouting in the hope of salvation. A single gunshot split the air, not halfway to the waters edge the traitor collapsed into a deplorable pile of a useless uniform and arms and legs. The boat, now near enough to hear the noise hurried closer to the shore to view the pile on the beach. Hiro observed two woman and a man on the boat, fishing rods lying on the deck. Before their inquisitive eyes could cast themselves into the jungle’s shadow a strafe across the sand and into the water zipped towards the boat in a deadly straight line, annihilating the boat and its three crew members. By the following day the hurricane conditions of the night before had destroyed every evidence that anything living had been there.

The versatile uses of Hiro’s samurai sword, as a carpenter’s tool and a chef’s blade had inevitably rendered it too blunt to cut his hair with. In keeping with the fashion of his grandfather, who was a warrior of the highest nobility, he tied his hair up as best he could, using strips of bamboo bark. Hiro sat at the jungle’s edge, Feeble-minded and decaying from his restricted diet and weather exposure, Hiro sat, hypnotically admiring the direction he assumed was his home. He meditated feverishly, had Japan had fought bravely and what had become of his wife? His delirious mind filled with the wistful aspirations he had for himself as the father he wanted to be.Just then, the fiery eye of God tore the sky apart with a pregnant boom, deafening were it not for the distance between them. The colossal blast diminished the infinite curve of the horizon and minutes later a shock wave washed over the sea and into the jungle where Hiro sat, filling his mouth with the taste of electricity. Three days later, hot as the breath from a dragon’s roar, a second blast burned all the stars out of heaven.

For weeks, cataract sunlight poisoned the daytime skies and a hideous orange haunted the nights. Long ago had Hiro discarded his useless samurai sword and in its place he held the suicide dagger his wife had given him all those lifetimes ago. He sat. He waited. Ash fell.

29 Years Later

A pair of ary officers extricated themselves from an ostentatiously large limousine and briskly approached the bookstore. Despite the immaculately shining uniforms of the Japanese military they fidgeted with mild discomfort.

“ I'll do the talking,” the one said to the other. The red band of material that crossed his chest from shoulder to hip stood in bright contrast to his ebony black uniform. Bold gold and silver medals hung from his left breast. His shoulders displayed the gold stripes with three sharp stars denoting his position as a Grand Marshal of the Japanese Empire.

“Yes sir!” The lieutenant said nervously. What business such a high ranking officer had in this bookstore he had was too terrified to ask. A miniature bell above the door announced their arrival with a delicate jingle. Visibly unsettled by the sight two of the finest dressed members of the Imperial army before him the young lad behind the counter whispered, “hello Sirs.”

“Is the propriator of this bookstore on the premesis?”

“Yes Sir, she is in the back mending books.”

“Well?” demanded the officer.

“Yes?” said the boy.

“Go and fetch her!” And the young lad hurried away to perform his duly appointed civic duty.

Looking mildly irritated at being interrupted from her work a woman bent from her innumerable years appeared from the curtain hanging on the doorway, seeing the pair of officers, she straightened and caught herself halfway through coming to attention. She pushed the glasses back up onto her nose with an ink stained thumb.

Her widespread dedicated years to the Japanese Imperial cause had long since been carried out and with resolve she inquired, “Yes?”

“Are you the wife of Hiro Onoda?” The Grand Marshal demanded.

She replied tentatively, “I was once but he died in the war.”

The Grand Master’s next words cast a weary spell on her, “No. Wife of Hiro Onoda; he has been found.” Before the young lad beside her could catch her she fell to the ground.

The smell of tea revived her and only once she had finished her first cup could she speak.

“How can this be!” She demanded. “After all these years?”

The Grand Marshal, being unaccustomed to such shamelessness from a woman, struggled with a reprimand. For the first time since their arrival the Lieutenant spoke, “Hiro’s dedication to Japanese Nationalism has kept him hidden in the jungle where even after all these years he continues with the Great Fight. We are at peace now and as you might imagine his actions while honourible are causing unwanted international attention. You must come with us to rescue him and Japan from further embarrassment.”

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From his hidden bamboo observation, Hiro saw the same boat arrive and land on the beach. Again, a man dressed in the Grand Marshal uniform leapt from the gunwale splashing his shinning boots into the seawater. Another trick! A man of such high honor would have grander tasks than to hoax him out of his place of battle. Behind him, a woman!

“Soldier Hiro Onoda!” The Grand Marshal shouted into the heavy, silent vegetation. “You have fought honorably! Your Actions have prevailed, above and beyond the determination of any soldier! The jungle’s thick perimeter muffled his voice. All Japanese soldiers’ actions are above and beyond! Allied devils! From behind the Grand Marshal there appeared the greatest temptation of all: a woman!

Her neck and face wore horrendous scars, tortuously tattooed there by a fierce fire. Demon! She walked determinedly around the Grand Marshal and presented herself before the jungle. Her voice a long ago memory, an intoxication of lost familiarity, “Hiro Onoda, it is I your long lost wife.” Hiro had but to leap out and plunge the dagger into her heart. Wait! She lifted her hands as if to sacrifice herself. From behind her neck she unclasped a chain and brought in front of her an object of priceless experiences, a survivor of all of Japan’s wars, handed down through generations, a gift to the first son’s bride: a golden heart shaped locket. A lifetime’s spell broke, “My wife!” Hiro stepped from the jungle, embraced his hands around hers and the locket. They fell together onto their knees, weeping.